


It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

by farseersfool



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee!Marco, Blow Jobs, Christmas, M/M, Voice Kink, musician au, some ahem blasphemy with christmas carols
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farseersfool/pseuds/farseersfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reluctant cellist and grad-student Jean is volunteered, against his will, to be the accompanist for vocal performance major Marco Bodt's senior recital. It goes better than he expected.</p><p>This is the story of how Jean ends up <i>not</i> spending Christmas alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, please let me know if you see any gigantic mistakes so I can fix it ASAP! <3
> 
> [This is the ringtone Jean has for his professor.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOnC5X8rWi0)

He could have done what his mother said, and majored in business, gotten a job straight of college, and been making a shit ton of money. Instead, he'd had to follow his dreams.

Which had left him no career prospects, racking up debt, in a shitty apartment that hadn't had anything replaced for a few decades, in a tense not-quite-a-fight with his family, and completely alone during the holidays.

He pulled the plain brown sweater closer around his lean form and raised his fourth can of cheap beer in the direction of his 'Christmas tree'--a traffic cone he'd _borrowed_ from a nearby construction site and wrapped in tinsel and lights. 

“Merry fucking Christmas to me,” he muttered, and frowned before taking a long drink. It wasn't even Christmas yet. December had just started, but why not celebrate his inevitable loneliness early. It wasn't likely to change in the next month.

He put the can down and let his eyes drift to the corner of the room where his cello's case sat, feeling the familiar mix of fondness and bitterness. He was a grad student in the school of music—not really by choice, but because in this economy, 'music performance major' was another term for 'unemployed musician.' He let himself drunkenly smirk and lean back in his rickety armchair. If nothing else, at least he was damn good at what he did.

Penderecki's _Threnody_ began blaring in harsh cacophony from Jean's phone where it sat on the table and he jumped. That ringtone meant the university's cello professor was calling. He groaned. He was simultaneously too drunk and not drunk enough for this.

He answered the call. “Hello?”

“Jean,” she said, brusque, businesslike as always, “I'm sorry for calling so late.” She didn't sound apologetic at all.

“It's fine,” he said shortly, “What's going on?”

“We've got a voice major giving his senior recital and he needs an accompanist. I volunteered you.” It wasn't a question.

“Whoa, hey, I didn't agree to this,” Jean said, sitting forward again.

“I know,” his professor said. “But he'd been working with Mina, and she got sick, and I think you're the only one good enough to learn the music by Sunday.”

“Sunday?” Jean said incredulously. That gave him less than a week. 

“Yep,” his professor said brightly, unapologetic, “Check your email. I sent you the pdfs, and the student's email and phone number so you can set up times to practice with him.”

Jean couldn't stifle a groan, and his professor laughed mercilessly.

“Good luck,” she said, and hung up.

-

Jean had finally passed out after stumbling to his bed after three more beers, firmly putting the upcoming performance out of his mind. He had deliberately and defiantly _not_ checked his email, and had turned off his phone so that he would have missed any more calls from his professor, his mom, his only friends Sasha and Connie, anyone.

But in the early morning light streaming through his small bedroom window, he couldn't ignore his responsibilities any more than he could the throbbing in his temple. He made a small noise of protest and got out of bed so that he could get dressed for the day, shuddering when his feet touched the threadbare carpet. His heat had been out for...a few years. 

One shower, a change of clothes, painkillers, and a granola bar later, Jean was ready to head over to the university. He had a few minutes, though, so he opened up his laptop and, with trepidation, clicked open the email from his professor. It didn't contain much information, just the name of the student he'd be working with: _Marco Bodt,_ and his email and phone number. Attached was the music he'd have to play for this kid.

He opened the files and almost shut the laptop in horror.

He didn't have a clue who Marco was, but he already hated him. He'd never seen accompaniment that was so fucking _hard._

And half of it was _Christmas music,_ ugh.

He sighed between gritted teeth and went to send the guy an email so they could work together before his performance. _In less than a week._ He read the words over before he sent it, making sure it was up to par. The email was short, terse but civil, and just passive-aggressive enough to let _Marco Bodt_ know how displeased Jean was with having to do this so short notice.

Perfect. He hit send. With that, he packed up his laptop, put on his backpack, grabbed his cello, and walked out to the bus stop.

-

He had been in one of the practice rooms on the top floor of the music building, learning the accompaniment to Marco's pieces when he got a reply. 

He read through it, still determined to hate this guy, but, wow, the email was so nice and apologetic that he almost felt himself warming up to him.

Except that that had to be his _plan!_ Jean didn't like being manipulated, and he felt his hatred and resolve strengthen. He replied, again, terse but civil, and they worked out times to practice before Sunday, starting tomorrow. Jean was really just working around Marco's schedule, since he, as an undergrad, had more things to worry about than Jean did, as a grad student at the tail end of the semester, all his private lessons students already taking their winter breaks.

Email sent, Jean went back to practicing, frustrated with the situation, but genuinely loving the feeling of the bow in his hand, the supple curve of the instrument, the rich, resonant sound that filled the small room. 

He fucked up again, sightreading, and grimaced. At least he was a fast learner. He'd probably have it down by the end of the day.

And he was right. By the time he emerged from the practice room a few hours later, he felt tentatively comfortable with all of the pieces, and distinctly less festive than they were. 

He was walking down the stairs to go ahead and go home a littler early since he was grumpier than usual and it was almost winter break, so the only people in the building were undergrads panicking and studying for finals. He smirked to see them. He was _glad_ that was behind him.

In the lobby of the building he was ambushed by Connie and Sasha, the two of them appearing on either side of them and blocking him in with their smaller bodies.

“Hiya, Jean,” Connie said, twirling a mallet in one dark hand.

“Heard you got stuck with an accompanist gig,” Sasha went on, her trombone case bumping against her knee.

“Word travels fast,” Jean grumbled, holding his cello case closer to his body so it didn't get hit when Connie's mallet inevitably went flying. It happened a moment later, luckily, in the opposite direction, and he asked as he went to retrieve it, “Who's the lucky vocalist?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Some undergrad named Marco Bodt.”

Sasha bounced. “I know Marco! He's a sweetie!” She whirled so she was in front of Jean and put the index finger of her free hand to the point of his nose. “You be nice.”

Jean glared at the finger, and she laughed at how his eyes went crossed, and went back to his side, nudging him. Connie, mallet in hand, returned to his other side, and Jean sighed, knowing that this invasion of his personal space wasn't likely to end any time soon.

“Sasha's right,” Connie agreed, and Jean gave him a look of betrayal. Was no one on his side, to tell him Marco was an asshole and he was right in hating him? “He's a super nice guy, so try to go easy on him, okay?”

Jean just grumbled, and finally nodded. Besides, he could already play the music; at this point it was just working out the kinks. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

Wait, no. He'd have to wear his concert tux on Sunday. With that in mind, he hated everything about this and Marco Bodt was the worst person ever.

Changing the subject, he asked if they had finally started dating, and they replied with the usual spluttering of ' _no, we're just best friends_ ,' and ' _platonic life partners is a better term_.'

-

Jean woke up late the next morning, with just enough time to get showered and dressed and to the music hall on time for his rehearsal with Marco, never mind a warmup and a quick run through of the music. He only hoped he remembered it well enough from the day before. 

He caught the bus and made it to the music building with fifteen minutes to spare, fast-walking past frantic undergrads and a few grad students and professors, easily distinguishable by the lack of anguish in their demeanor, while having increased world-weariness, and up the stairs to the recital hall. 

It was dark. He'd gotten there first. That meant Marco was _late._ He added that to his list of faults.

Jean flipped on the lights and dragged a chair and a stand over to the side of the performance floor, taking his instrument out and checking over it before doing an abbreviated version of his warmup.

That done, he cast a judgmental look over to the door, which had still not opened again to let in a certain voice major who was severely inconveniencing Jean. He took out the music and played through a few of the trickier parts, smiling when he played them perfectly. Yeah, he was good.

Finally, four minutes before the scheduled meeting time, the door opened, almost shyly, and Jean reluctantly looked up, displeasure evident on his face.

Marco froze at his expression, and Jean took his measure. He was tall, broad-shouldered and he had skin that was a warm medium-brown, covered in darker freckles. His dark eyes were wide, and he had a kind curve to his mouth. He was older than Jean expected, more his age than the usual twenty-two of an undergrad giving their senior recital.

And god damn it, he was really cute.

Jean hated him.

“Hi, hi, oh my god, I'm so sorry I got here this late. Getting from the Sina Building to here in five minutes sounded a lot easier in my head than it actually ended up being.”

He had a _really_ nice voice, Jean noted with disgust as Marco shucked off his coat, laying it over one of the chairs for the audience and unwrapping his scarf from his neck.

Finally, he walked over to where Jean was seated, and extended his left hand. Jean stared at it in confusion, wondering if this guy was so much of an idiot that he didn't even know you were supposed to shake with your right hand. Then, he saw that Marco's sleeve was pinned up, and that he simply didn't have a right arm. 

Hesitantly, Jean shook the proferred limb with his own left hand.

Marco kept talking, “Hi, I'm Marco. You must be Jean--” he mentally gave the guy a point for pronouncing his name right, at least, “--Thank you so much for helping me out last minute. I know it has to be a huge pain for you, but when Mina got sick I didn't know what to do...”

He trailed off, and Jean realized that the guy was nervous. “It's fine,” he said shortly, even though it _was_ a huge pain. 

They stared at each other just long enough for it to get awkward, and Marco finally bounced backward, asking, “So, uh, did you want to get straight to...?” He indicated the cello and the music stand.

“Oh,” Jean said, “Sure. What order are you doing them in?”

Marco named one of the pieces, _O Come O Come Emmanuel_ , thankfully the one that Jean had found the easiest, and he nodded at Marco—it started with a voice intro.

Marco blushed a little and looked to the floor. Jean rolled his eyes and managed not to sigh. Of course he would have stage fright.

But then, Marco looked up, straight out at where the audience would be on Sunday, and began singing.

And his voice was so perfect, so pure, like golden sun bursting out from behind a screen of clouds and drenching the world in light, that Jean about dropped the bow.

As it was, he very nearly missed his entrance, coming in just barely late, but compensating quickly and letting his cello's darker, richer tone weave in and out of Marco's voice line.

The arrangement was perfectly suited to his clear tenor, and allowed it to soar, the somber lines of the song filling the room.

By the end of the piece, Jean was suitably impressed, and maybe even feeling a little bit of the Christmas spirit.

_Ave Maria._

_In The Bleak Midwinter._

And two non-Christmas compositions that Jean had never heard before, but were also rendered exquisite by Marco's voice. By the end of the rehearsal Jean found himself licking his lips whenever Marco hit the low notes, swallowing when his voice went gravelly, breathing a little heavier than he really should be.

He was getting turned on by Marco's fucking beautiful voice, god damn it.

Yeah, he hated him. 

They had run through all of the pieces, and Jean had gotten everything mostly right, save for a few places that he had known were causing him trouble.

At the end, Jean looked up to Marco and awkwardly stammered, “You've uh, this is really. I mean. You and your old accompanist seemed to have this pretty much down.” It was true. Marco had been flawless, and had followed him even when he'd fucked up.

“Yeah,” Marco chuckled a little, and, damn it, even his laugh was perfect, “It was a bit of a blow when she got sick...”

Jean blushed and looked down. “I fucked up a lot today. I'll have it down when we meet on Thursday, I promise.”

Marco took a step closer to him. “You only got the music yesterday, right? That was. Uh. Seriously impressive, if that's the case.” Jean nodded, feeling himself blush hotter and hating himself for it.

Marco went on. “Seriously, thank you so much for helping me out. You're a real lifesaver. I'll have to buy you dinner or something when this is all over.”

There it was. Maximum blush potential. “I, uh. Yeah. Don't worry about it. Happy to help,” Jean muttered, packing up his cello to hide his face from Marco.

Marco said more thanks as he left the room, and Jean let out a groan as the door shut behind him.

He'd be dreaming about a perfect golden tenor tonight, he knew it.

He was determined to hate Marco Bodt.

But he loved his voice.

-

Wednesday passed uneventfully. He spent the morning practicing the music for Marco and chatting with Sasha and Connie. During the early part of the afternoon, he got asked to give a last-minute private lesson to a high school freshman who was trying to impress her grandparents when they came to visit.

Jean helped her the best he could for about an hour, correcting and offering suggestions on the music. It sounded a little better when she left than when she'd come in, so Jean was satisfied, and he had an extra fifty in his pocket, so, hey, there was that, too.

He stuck around for a little while after that, playing the pieces until he was completely satisfied. At this rate he'd probably have them memorized by Sunday. Good. He always looked better without a stand in front of him.

He swallowed while he put his cello back in its case, adam's apple bobbing. There was one thing bothering him, though. He couldn't get the sound of Marco's voice, clear and sweet on the high notes, husky and smoky on the low notes, out of his head.

He had never, in his memory, been so attracted to anyone before. Even if it was just a weird voice kink thing, since he, you know, still hated the guy.

He left his practice room and was almost immediately assaulted by Sasha and Connie.

“Hey, grumpy-pants,” Sasha greeted him, latching on to his arm. “Wanna go get dinner with us?”

Jean thought about it for a second. He had the extra money from the lesson, and it was either that or sitting at home in his frigid apartment eating ramen and pathetically lusting after a certain freckled voice major.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and Sasha and Connie both cheered and high-fived each other. Jean had to smile a little. He was a jerk and he knew it, but at least his only two friends seemed to genuinely like him. They took a detour to Jean's rarely-used instrument locker and he stored his cello for the night, patting the case tenderly before locking it up.

They talked about their plans for the holidays as they walked to Connie's ancient Volkswagen in the parking garage. Connie was going with Sasha to spend Christmas with her family, and then they were going to spend New Year's with Connie's family. Jean gritted his teeth and smiled, happy for them but also a little jealous.

He'd be spending Christmas with a six-pack of cheap beer, and New Year's...probably the same. He could go home. He _could._ But the passive-aggressive comments and pointed questions were just too much for him. He and his parents didn't _like_ each other, and they weren't close to the rest of his family. There was no point.

Jean was happy when the topic shifted to where they should eat. Deciding on burgers, Connie set in on him.

“Hey, Jean, I ran into Marco today.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jean inquired, trying not to sound too interested.

“Yeah,” Connie said, looking at where Jean was in the back seat for so long that he almost ran a red light. “He said you were _nice._ ”

“Hot damn,” Sasha interjected. “Jean? Jean Kirschstein? _Nice?_ You really must have been on your best behavior!”

“Shut up,” Jean said, rolling his eyes, “I can do _nice._ ”

“Usually only when you _want something,_ though,” Connie said, looking at him in the rear-view mirror, his dark eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“So,” Sasha said, craning back into the back seat. “Tell me, Jean, what did you think of Marco's voice?”

Jean felt himself going bright red. He'd told his friends about his voice kink in a drunken game of truth or dare years earlier, and they had never forgotten it.

“It's um. It's definitely a voice.” Jean said, looking anywhere but at Sasha's knowing grin.

“Yep,” Connie said.

“Total voice-boner,” Sasha agreed, and Jean regretted his decision to go to dinner with them.

“You guys are assholes.”

“We won't say anything,” Sasha said conspiratorially.

“Speak for yourself,” Connie joked, and Jean just wondered when it would be over.

-

At their rehearsal the next day, Marco had beaten Jean to the recital hall, after he had warmed up on a practice room. He blinked, a little surprised to find him already there. 

Marco stood up, clearly startled by the door opening. 

“Jean! You're early,” he said.

“Speak for yourself,” Jean replied, somewhere between flat and wry. There was that voice again. Rich like caramel even when he was just speaking. Now that he'd nursed this crush for two days, he hoped he could handle hearing him sing.

Marco smiled, as awkward and nervous as he'd been on Tuesday, and god _damn_ it but he was cute. Jean sighed as he pulled his chair and stand to the desired location. This whole 'hating him' thing wasn't really working out for him.

“So!” Marco said when he got the stand adjusted to the right height. “Got any plans for the holiday?”

Jean stilled, and shrugged. “Not really.”

Marco gave him a look. “No family?”

Jean returned the look. He was trying to be friendly, but he was sure going straight for some sore subjects. “We don't get along. They don't approve of the music thing.”

“Really?” Marco said, “But you're so good!” Then he blushed, and Jean smiled to see it. “I mean, everyone told me you were one of the best cellists at the university and you learned the music so fast and...”

“Thanks,” Jean said, giving him an out. Inwardly, he was deeply pleased. “What about you, Freckles?”

He blushed again, and it was a pretty sight to see. “It's uh—it's my parents' 30th anniversary so they're going on a cruise to celebrate. I'm alone this Christmas.”

Jean only nodded. It sucked to be alone at Christmas, even for a legitimate reason like that.

“Oh! Uh, should we go on to the music?” Marco said a little shyly, and Jean nodded after a second, getting everything set up on his end.

They made eye contact, and Jean nodded that he was ready.

Marco began his solo introduction and an instant thrill of arousal shot through Jean's body. He bit his lip and screwed his eyes closed for a second to fight it back. He was accompanying Marco for his _senior recital._ He had to do this to graduate. Sense of responsibility engaged, he played his introduction perfectly, and the rest of the piece as well. 

Since Marco had nowhere to be that day, they spent a little longer, going back over bits of the piece and working them individually to make sure it would be ready to go on Sunday.

They did the same with the other four pieces, and by the end, Jean was a) uncomfortably aroused and thankful for his long bulky sweater and b) comfortable with the music, and pretty sure that they'd do well for the recital.

“Thank you again,” Marco said as Jean was packing up. “Did you still want to meet tomorrow?”

Jean bit his lip and nodded. “It wouldn't hurt to give it one more run through.” Though that was not his only reason.

Marco smiled and nodded, waving brightly with his single hand before leaving the hall. 

Jean dawdled in the recital hall for a while before heading to the bus to go home. Floppy sweater or not, he didn't want to walk around the music building half-hard.

And if he came into his hand later, Marco's name on his lips, his voice singing in his mind's ear, well, it wasn't like a certain freckled tenor would ever know.

-

Jean managed to behave himself at their final rehearsal, which went so smoothly that he could only hope the performance itself was that good, and Marco dithered in the recital hall while Jean packed up his things.

“You need something?” He asked, not unkindly, as he was preparing to leave the room.

“Just. You're really helping me out and I hardly know you,” Marco replied, blushing, looking at the shiny wooden floor.

Jean couldn’t help but smile. So, he wanted to be friends? “Um, well, what do you want to know?”

He went over and sat in one of the plush audience chairs near Marco.

“Why music?” he asked, and Jean half-grinned. At least he'd started with an easy one, this time.

“I love it,” Jean replied honestly, “I love it and I'm good at it and I want to make my life around it.” Marco smiled and nodded.

“What about you?” Jean found himself asking, without really thinking about it. “I mean, I see _why_ you're a voice major--” he blushed, “--but what's your story?”

Marco sat down then, looking away from him. “Started out as a dance major. Then I got cancer.” Jean looked up, startled. Marco gave him a watery smile and indicated where he right arm wasn't. “Bone cancer. Had to have it amputated. It was hard dance with a missing arm so I switched majors...a few times. That's why I'm twenty-six and just now graduating.” He grinned and shrugged. 

Jean was a little surprised to find that Marco was actually a year _older_ than him. His sweet face and demeanor made him seem younger. 

“That really sucks,” Jean said awkwardly.

“It all worked out in the end, you know?” Marco replied. Jean nodded along with him. He was _made_ to sing. 

They sat and talked for over an hour, about music, about life, and everything in between. Jean could physically feel his crush growing stronger, an ache in his chest, and he wondered how he had ever tried to hate Marco.

In the end, they only left because a horn quartet showed up to practice for an upcoming performance. Jean hadn't even noticed the time passing.

He was in deep, he thought bitterly as he left the building after saying goodbye to Marco.

He was too old for this shit.

-

He had Connie give him a ride to the recital Sunday evening, since the campus buses weren't running. His tux, rarely worn, still fit him perfectly. Sasha had grinned lecherously and nodded approvingly upon seeing him in it. He'd just rolled his eyes and gotten in the car, cradling his cello in his lap.

As expected, they were some of the first people there. Jean parted ways with his friends at the door to the recital hall, as they went to find seats, and Jean went to warm up in a practice room. He'd spent most of Friday evening and Saturday committing the music to memory, but he wanted to play through it anyway—just to be sure.

He imagined Marco's voice, and played through everything, and it was performance-ready. Not a single mistake. He grinned cockily. He may be twenty-five, estranged from his family, and with no romantic or career prospects, but at least he could play the cello. Really well.

About twenty minutes before the recital was supposed to begin, he wandered down to the area outside the stage entrance for the recital hall, only to find Marco there, pacing nervously.

“You okay, man?” he asked with something approaching gentleness.

“I'm um,” Marco said after he started. “I'm a little nervous, I guess.”

Jean nodded. “Everyone out there wants you to succeed,” he said, something he'd been told by countless musicians over the years. They leaned on the railing that overlooked the first floor of the building side by side.

“Yeah...” Marco said, so softly Jean almost didn't hear him.

They stood in silence for a moment, and Jean looked at Marco from his periphery, taking in the rich color of his skin and the way the freckles softened the angles of his jaw. His broad shoulders, his well-fitted concert tux, right sleeve pinned up. Jean glanced away, blushing lightly. On him, it looked like a penguin suit, but on Marco, it looked classy.

“Hey, Jean?” Marco said, sounding more nervous than ever.

“What's up?” he asked, still looking over the rail rather than at the man next to him.

“Do you want to get dinner after this?”

Jean did look over, then. What had he meant by that...? Was this the thank-you dinner he'd mentioned, or...? His tone implied something else, as did his blush.

“I mean, to thank you, for helping me. When you didn't have to.”

Jean looked down, disappointed.

Marco took a deep shaky breath, and went on. “But also as a date. If you'd be interested.”

“What?”

“You're just really cute and like you a lot and I'd like to buy you dinner if that's okay,” Marco said, all in a rush.

“What!?” Jean asked again, shocked. He's had _no_ idea his crush had been mutual.

“Oh, god, I knew this was a bad idea. I'm sorry. Thank you for accompanying me; I'll leave you alone after this—“

“No, no!” Jean said, louder than he meant. “Dinner, yes, please!” He was blushing just as hard as Marco, and they made eye contact, and, after a moment, laughed.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” Marco said, wiping his eyes. Jean was still grinning widely, his nose wrinkled up and his teeth showing. 

They checked the clock, and it was about time for them to start getting set up in the recital hall. Jean could see some of the nerves returning to Marco, so he grabbed his hand.

“Hey, you're gonna do great,” Jean muttered, looking to the side. “Your voice is, uhh. It's really great.” He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he said the last part, and chanced a look up at Marco's face.

He was blushing too. Shit, Jean's stupid fair skin had given everything away with it's obvious blushing. He had to have figured it out.

“Uh-huh, you go do your thing,” Jean growled, letting go of Marco's hand and shooing him into the hall ahead of him so that he could let his face cool off.

After a second, he followed, and the audience clapped. Jean scanned the room and found Connie and Sasha near the front, and Connie gave him a thumbs-up. He grinned, and took his spot, taking his cello out of its case. 

Quietly, he played a few notes to get re-adjusted to the acoustics of the recital hall while the audience started to quiet down.

A faculty member that Jean had seen but never spoken to came to the front and gave Marco a short introduction, calling him one of her 'brightest students' and marveling at his work ethic and musical talent. Marco smiled, embarrassed, and Jean smiled softly at him, from his chair.

Then, she gave a thanks to him, and Jean stood up to bow, though he did flinch when the professor mispronounced his name. He saw Marco throw him an apologetic look, and he shrugged the annoyance off.

Then it was just them on the performance floor. The operator dimmed the audience lights. Marco looked at Jean with something like desperation. Jean forced a smile and nodded at him.

With that, Marco looked out at the sea of shadowed faces, and began singing. It was as beautiful as it ever was, and Jean was captivated along with everyone else in the room. Only practice made him raise his bow to his instrument when it was time for his entrance.

He played his lines with his eyes closed to feel the music, warm oaky strings blending with Marco's voice as it soared over his lines.

It went off without a hitch, and the applause was deafening in the small hall.

The other pieces followed in a similar manner, everything fading away but the thrill of the music flowing out from under his hands, blending with Marco's voice in glorious harmony. He forgot about being alone at Christmas. He forgot about being in debt. He forgot about his scheduled dinner with Marco. Everything was music.

As the final piece drew to a close, Jean stood up to bow with Marco, and they got a standing ovation. Marco's eyes were only on Jean, though, as he smiled his widest, most genuine smile, and Jean felt himself falling a little harder under the bright stage lights and the cheers and claps from their friends and teachers.

It died down, at last, and the crowd started to disperse, a veritable mob of students coming forward to congratulate Marco and tell him how good it had been.

Sasha and Connie sidled up to Jean bracketing him while he packed up his cello.

“Oh my god,” Sasha said, “His voice _is_ really great!”

Connie nodded in agreement and added, “I don't even have your weird fetish and I was a little turned on there.”

Jean scowled at him. “Don't get any ideas; we have a date.”

They both squealed at him like little girls, and Jean flinched. “You do?” Connie asked.

“Tell me everything,” demanded Sasha.

Jean picked up his instrument by the handle and gestured to the performer's door. Excitedly, they followed him to the overlook where he had been asked out by Marco just about an hour ago.

“Well, I met him here before the recital, and he seemed really nervous,” Jean said with sarcastic enthusiasm to cover up his _actual_ excitement.

“And?” Sasha prompted.

“And then he asked me out. I said yes,” Jean finished flatly.

Sasha and Connie embraced tightly. “Jean got a date!” He said, and Sasha laughed. “It's a Christmas miracle!” Jean gave a long-suffering sigh, and looked over his shoulder when the door opened.

It was Marco, holding about four bouquets of flowers in his arm. 

“How'd you get rid of your admirers?” Connie asked him knowingly.

Marco froze and stammered. “I, uh, well, I.”

“Told them you had a hot date?” Sasha offered.

“Pretty much,” Marco murmured, hiding his face in his flowers. 

“Well, don't let _us_ keep you,” Connie said with a wink, and slapped Jean on the shoulder as he walked past him.

“Have fun!” Sasha added in sing-song, patting Jean on the ass as she walked by.

“I, uhh. Let me help you with those,” Jean offered, lurching forward to help Marco carry the flowers.

He smiled shyly. “Thanks.”

They detoured to let Jean put up his cello, in near silence, post-performance daze and pre-date jitters mixing into one.

The flowers were a convenient excuse to not decide whether or not it was too early to hold Marco's hand or if he should put an arm around him as he shivered, walking to the car. It had been so long since he'd been in a relationship, he'd forgotten what to do.

“I think it went pretty well,” Marco said, and Jean looked at him.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “It was the best you've sounded, that I've heard.”

Marco smiled, too, looking at his shoes. “You too. I mean, you always sound great, but...”

Jean bumped him with his shoulder. “You too.” 

They got to Marco's car, and put the flowers in the backseat. It was a much nicer car than Connie's metal death-trap, for all that it was still about a decade old. Jean got into the passenger seat and glanced around. It was a lot cleaner than Connie's car, too. A knob attached to the steering wheel, presumably to make it easier to steer one-handed, though Jean didn't bring it up.

“Where are we going?” he asked tentatively as Marco started the car.

Marco froze, foot on the break. “Oh, god, I have no idea. Uh, what are you hungry for?”

They laughed, and discussed it as Marco drove them out of the parking garage, deciding on a locally owned Vietnamese place that probably wouldn't be too crowded.

The atmosphere got less and less awkward as Marco drove them to the restaurant, with Marco laughing at Jean's shitty jokes, and Jean laughing because Marco's laugh was hella fucking _cute._ On the way from the parking lot to the restaurant's entrance, he did put his arm around Marco's waist, butterflies in his stomach and his heart beating rapidly when Marco leaned into his touch.

They sat at a small table away from the other few people in the festively decorated restaurant, smiling at each other too often for it to be anything other than a first date. Marco caught Jean's ankle between his own and held it there, and they smiled at each other over that too.

Jean didn't think he'd smiled as much as he had since meeting Marco in the past few years.

“You graduate in a week, right?” Jean asked, quirking his head to the side.

“Yep,” Marco said. 

Jean nodded and made sure to check the times so he could be there. “What are your plans?” He was almost afraid to find out, afraid of losing him so soon after he'd found him.

Marco shrugged and grinned sheepishly, looking a little embarrassed. “Grad school. Here. There's, uhh, not much you can do with a vocal performance BA in this economy.”

Jean barked a bitter laugh. He was in the exact same situation. At least it meant Marco wasn't moving away.

“I feel you,” he said with a sigh. 

The waiter interrupted their conversation by dropping off their drinks and taking their orders, and when he left they talked about less scary topics than The Future.

Embroiled in the middle of a friendly debate over the various merits and strikes against Ravel as a composer, Marco's phone beeped, and he drew it from his pocket to check the message.

Jean only saw his face contort into an expression of confusion.

“Sasha says I should sing for you, winky face.” Jean felt his face heat up and quickly hid it in his hands.

He could hear Marco typing something in reply. 

He had just dared to look up again when the phone beeped once more. His friends were out to ruin him. There was no other explanation.

“Explain?” Marco asked, showing Jean the text conversation. After Sasha's innuendo-filled message, Marco had said, ' _Now he's just embarrassed; I don't understand._ '

After that, Sasha had replied, ' _Jean REALLY likes your voice ;) ;) ;)'_

Jean could not possibly be any more blush-tastic than he was right then. He muttered a few curses at Sasha under his breath and then looked at the table, unable to look Marco in the eye while he said it. “I, uh, I may or may not have a little bit of a voice kink.”

Marco's eyebrows were raised in understanding and his mouth formed a small 'o.' Thanks, Sasha, Jean thought, now he was weirded out and there went Jean's chances with this guy.

Marco leaned across the table then, licking his lips nervously, and his voice was low when he spoke. “If it equals the playing field, I've never seen anything sexier than you playing your cello.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Never thought I'd be jealous of an instrument but...”

Jean's jaw hung open and a wave of heat went through him. Marco reached over and closed his mouth for him, just as the waiter reappeared to check on them, and tell them their food would be out in a few minutes. 

Marco and Jean both turned and nodded tightly at him and, seeming to understand he'd interrupted, the waiter left in a hurry.

Marco's fingertips were brushing Jean's on the tabletop, and he cast his eyes to the side, licking his lips again. If that was a nervous tic of his, Jean wasn't going to survive.

Then, Marco locked eyes with him. “Do you want to come over after this?”

No pretense, no offer of 'coffee,' or anything. “Yes,” Jean breathed, and Marco smiled.

Dinner couldn't be over fast enough. He wasn't even hungry anymore. At least, not in the usual sense.

-

The door to Marco's apartment closed and locked behind them and Jean finally tasted his lips, spicy sweet like the sauce on his food had been, but something deeper that was uniquely _Marco_ , awaking a primal need in Jean. He pressed Marco against the front door and kissed him hard, fitting a thigh in between Marco's and grinning into his mouth when he felt Marco's grip on the collar of his tux jacket tighten, then falter, then move into his hair, twisting in the short strands and caressing his scalp. Jean pulled back for air, already breathing hard. Marco's eyes were open, his pupils wide and eyes glassy. 

Jean kissed his jaw, his adam's apple, down the line of his throat to where his bowtie was still done. His hands itched to take it off, but he fisted them in the jacket fabric by Marco's hips instead, moving his mouth over to the side of his neck and under his ear, biting lightly, not hard enough to leave a mark, and sucking Marco's earlobe into his mouth, worrying at it with his teeth. He heard his gasps turn into a small moan at the sensation, and he smirked to himself.

But he wanted more. He put his fingers on the bowtie, poised to undo it.

He made eye contact with Marco, who was already looking thoroughly wrecked. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“You—“ he said shakily, steadying his voice. “Jean, you can do whatever you want to me.”

He smirked again. That was what he liked to hear. The bowtie came off, and the jacket followed it, leaving him in just the black vest and the white shirt. It was still too much. This was why Jean hated concert attire. He unbuttoned the shirt halfway, pushing it aside so he had access to Marco's chest and shoulders.

“Sasha was right,” Jean said, standing back to look at him.

“Why are you talking about Sasha right now?” Marco asked, almost petulantly.

“Sing for me, Marco,” Jean commanded, fitting his lips to Marco's throat so he could feel his adam's apple move when he swallowed.

“Ah—sing what?”

“Anything,” Jean murmured into his skin. 

“Anything?” Marco repeated dumbly.

“Whatever comes to mind,” Jean answered, lapping at his collarbone.

Marco muttered something about 'thinking' being 'difficult right now,' but a second later, he took a deep breath, and shakily began singing, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down...”

Jean interrupted him with a kiss to the lips. “Santa's not the one who's going to be coming, tonight,” he teased, grinding his thigh against Marco's crotch, and the hardness he felt there.

“You said to sing whatever came to mind,” Marco said over a long groan.

“Then keep going,” Jean said, returning to his near-worship of Marco's body, unbuttoning his vest while he kissed across his shoulders.

“Oh come, all ye faithful...joyful and triumphant, oh come ye, oh come ye to...”

“I think you've got something else on your mind, all this talk of coming,” Jean murmured, slipping first Marco's vest, then his shirt, completely off.

“Jean, stop!” Marco said in a whine, and like a bucket of ice had been poured over him, Jean put his hands up and backed away.

Marco made an apologetic face and said, “I meant stop poking fun at my song choices, not stop...this,” he gestured at his bare torso.

“Oh,” Jean said, not moving.

“In fact, please continue,” Marco said, blushing.

Permission granted, Jean kissed Marco's mouth for a long while, a wet slide of lips, the slick friction of their tongues, urged on by the small noises coming from Marco's throat—and, yeah, his own, too. 

Finally, he pulled back, skimming his fingers across Marco's chest, and down his stomach, which twitched under his touch.

“Can I suck you off?” Jean asked, a little bit shy, and the look on Marco's face made it seem like he might come then and there.

“Please,” he replied, a high pitched whisper of a plea.

“Sing for me, Marco,” Jean asked again, more of a request this time, “I promise I'll be nice.”

Marco swallowed and nodded, and as Jean kissed across his chest, swirling his tongue on his nipple, making Marco's voice hitch, he sang.

“Oh, holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear savior's birth...”

Jean wanted to say something about this being blasphemous, but he'd promised to be nice, so he moved to Marco's other nipple, biting gently and then soothing it with his tongue. Marco's voice broke off to gasp out his name, but he picked up a second later, and his voice was even more beautiful broken by arousal and breathy moans.

“Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, til he appeared and the soul—ah—felt its worth...”

Jean's fingers worked on Marco's belt, undoing the buckle and sliding it out of its loops. It joined the pile of clothing on the floor.

“A thrill of hope the weary world—mm—rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn...”

Jean worked on the button and zipper of Marco's pants, getting them undone and sliding them down past his hips.

When Marco sang, “Fall on your knees,” Jean went to his own in front of him, and pulled his boxer briefs down out of the way, Marco's cock bobbing free, and Jean licked his lips before taking it in his mouth. It had been...a while since he'd done this, and he hoped he was still good at it.

He took the base of Marco's dick in one hand, steadying his hips with the other, and licked a stripe to the tip, along the vein on the underside, and Marco let off singing for a while, jaw slack and eyes half-lidded.

Jean made a noise of displeasure, and he picked up where he'd let off, finishing that verse and humming idly, clearly not knowing the second one off the top of his head, so he switched to _Silent Night._

Jean worked his cock, using his hand in conjunction with his lips and his tongue, and the carol got more and more debauched as it went along, and Marco was more lost in pleasure. Jean pulled almost all the way off and flicked his tongue against the tip of his dick, making him cry out at the very end of the song.

Looked like little baby Jesus wouldn't be sleeping in heavenly peace, tonight.

Marco went silent then, save for the moans and panting breaths he was letting out almost constantly, now, and Jean didn't pressure him to sing anymore. 

He could feel Marco's hips straining against the hand Jean was using to keep him pressed into the door, and knew he had to be close. Just as he had the thought, Marco gasped out, “Jean, I'm gonna come.”

And it _had_ been a while, but he was sure he could still manage this, at least. Jean sucked in as much of Marco's cock as he could without gagging and hollowed out his cheeks, working the base with his hand, and Marco let out a broken sound somewhere between a shout and a sob, the fingers of his hand twisting into Jean's hair as he came in Jean's mouth. 

He swallowed it down and got to his feet, wiping his mouth and humming _Joy to the World._ Marco gave him a glare, but it was too full of post-orgasmic satisfaction to hold any real heat.

He kissed him lazily, suddenly hyperaware of his own cock, hard and untouched.

Marco had the same thoughts.

“I've got condoms if you wanna...” he trailed off, still looking blissfully sated and content.

Jean swallowed hard, thinking of the feeling of Marco's taut body under him, around him.

“God, yes,” he said, and Marco grinned, gently pushing Jean back. He pulled his pants and underwear back up so that he could walk, and took Jean's hand, leading him to the bedroom.

“Merry fucking Christmas to me,” Jean repeated his words from a week earlier.

Marco smiled back at him, his face almost at beautiful as his voice, and Jean wanted to write his professor a formal thank-you letter for volunteering him for this gig.

The door closed behind them.

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays to all! Thank you for reading.
> 
> P.s. I am not a music major and have not been in band since my freshman year of college so please be lenient with me on how these things work.


End file.
